


We Are Our Own Lies

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Content, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 13:11:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4626486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Aramis and d'Artagnan end up kinda-competing to see who can blow Porthos better. In which Porthos is the winner no matter who's the victorious one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Are Our Own Lies

**Author's Note:**

> There is no explanation for this. I lovingly refer to this fic as the "AND THEN WE HAD SEX /RIPS OFF SHIRT" fic. Cause honestly. Porthos surrounds himself with impulsive people. 
> 
> Speaking of impulsive, this has been sitting on my drive for a while and I finally just finished it in like two days and thus I apologize for the one or two typos that are inevitably in there cause I missed them.

The time apart from Constance, in the heat of things, is what affects d’Artagnan the most. It’s one thing to know that he cares about her and loves her – it’s another thing entirely to know that Constance feels the same way and yet they are _not_ together as they should be. He thinks to himself that maybe he can handle it eventually. Perhaps. In the grand scheme of things, he’s lost more and lost more fully – but Constance is the first woman he’s ever really, truly loved and now he’s lost her. Lost her and yet she’s still right there, too close. He could reach for her and yet he can’t. She could reach for him and yet she doesn’t. 

It helps that he has the others, their friendship and camaraderie. It makes things easier. He thinks it might be far worse if he didn’t have that, if he were truly and fully alone. Athos’ friendship is one he’s forever grateful for, has wine with him late in the evening when he doesn’t want to be alone, and d’Artagnan knows that he is his best friend. Porthos and Aramis, too, are steady friends he would never snub. 

But that, of course, is probably why everything changes within the span of one week. He is full of longing, full of sadness and love – and unsure how to facilitate it. He ducks behind a corner of the garrison, in search for something or other – he can no longer remember – and then he spots Aramis and Porthos, heads ducked in private conversation. 

Then Porthos tilts his head, smiles at Aramis so softly it’s almost painful, and leans in to kiss Aramis. That, perhaps, is something more than a shock for d’Artagnan. Although he doesn’t feel quite as shocked or dismayed as me might have imagined even five minutes ago. The kiss is simple, chaste, sweet – he can see the way Aramis smiles into it, the way Porthos’ hands lay down upon his hips so gently, tugging him in closer and away from the wall. 

And d’Artagnan thinks it’s as simple matter as that: he sees Porthos and Aramis kissing and that is that. He ducks away from the scene and goes back to what he was doing. He doesn’t let himself think about it further than that and certainly doesn’t say a word to Aramis or Porthos. If they don’t feel the need to tell him, then there’s no need for him to bring it up. 

He finds himself thinking of it throughout the day, though. The way the light touched at Porthos’ hair. The small way he smiled at Aramis like he was something precious and endearing, and not that he’s the annoying little shit that he actually is. He has dimples. The way their noses brushed, bumped together. The way the kiss lingered, far longer than anything brotherly and definitely something more heated, even when so innocent. 

He doesn’t have to think about it again, he doesn’t have to linger on it. He tells himself that much. It isn’t his business, and he’s hardly one to judge on morality and immorality. What sticks with him most, of course, is the way Porthos smiles at Aramis once they part, like Aramis is the sun or something equally as poetic that Constance would sigh happily over. It makes him miss her, bitterly and terribly. He thinks of the way Porthos’ eyes went soft. 

He tells himself not to think about it. 

But then a few days later he sees Porthos drop a kiss onto Aramis’ mouth _again_ , the way Aramis looks surprised and yet pleased at first, and then just tips his chin up and slants their mouths together properly. They are in a little alcove. It’s by pure chance that d’Artagnan should have seen them. But he does. He sees it. 

And then suddenly, d’Artagnan can think of nothing else. 

 

-

 

He thinks he’s being subtle about it – good God, he prays that he’s being subtle about it. The last thing he needs is Aramis’ inherent teasing and Porthos’ goading. But once he starts thinking about it – it’s all he can think about. He finds his gaze lingering more often than not, watching the way Porthos moves, the way he laughs, the way he ducks his head down to listen to words softly spoken. Hands, large but gentle-looking. Usually he can jostle himself from his daydreaming curiosity before Porthos turns his way, but sometimes Porthos turns his head, spots him, and starts laughing. 

“What’s up?” he asks. 

And d’Artagnan really wishes he had an answer for him. Usually, he just shrugs. 

But he really should have known that it would be Aramis who locks onto it sooner rather than later. It’s a quieter day, and he’s fluctuating between thinking of Constance up at the palace, hoping she’s well and telling himself he shouldn’t worry about her, and then getting utterly distracted by Porthos and Athos, training out a few paces away. Athos isn’t even breaking up a sweat but Porthos, less skilled with swords, keeps trying to improve despite his completely outmatched status. Usually, d’Artagnan watches Athos in these moments, more skilled and best friend that he is. But today, he can’t stop staring at Porthos. The way his eyes burn with pleasure, his small smirk even as he’s losing, the twist of his wrist, the slide of his feet across the ground. 

And then Aramis is dropping down beside him and says, “You are not subtle.”

Which is rather to the point but also, frankly, rather embarrassing. He does his best to not look completely bewildered and cornered when he turns to give Aramis a look – even manages to make it look withered. “What?” 

“You’ve been staring at Porthos all week,” Aramis says, with a false kind of cheerfulness – and d’Artagnan squints at Aramis as Aramis smiles at him, wide and almost unforgiving. And – god, is he jealous? Is he jealous – d’Artagnan can’t actually tell. 

“I am not,” d’Artagnan dismisses, and just to prove his point he looks over at Athos instead, watches him block a haphazard swipe from Porthos. 

“My dear d’Artagnan,” Aramis sighs out, “Give me some benefit to be able to notice these things. Porthos is a bit of hopeless case when it comes to noticing people are attracted to him – trust me on that – but I am quite the expert.”

“Oh, I’m so sure,” d’Artagnan says with a large roll of his eyes. He can’t hold back the small, teasing smile and a lift of his eyebrows as he gives Aramis an indulgent expression. “Something tells me you see attraction towards you regardless of if it’s there.” 

The fight between Athos and Porthos is over, and Porthos is laughing and clapping Athos on the shoulder – who begrudgingly accepts this with one of his almost-smiles, which means he’s pleased with the results. And d’Artagnan swallows down as they approach and he can practically _feel_ the smugness radiating off of Aramis. 

Athos parts shortly thereafter, saying something of speaking with the captain – no longer ‘captain’, perhaps, but still captain to them – and that leaves Porthos, grinning at the two of them, sweaty and warmed from exercise, his sleeves rolled up, a few of his curls clinging to his forehead. 

“So,” Porthos says, grinning, “Want to go get drinks or something?” 

“Oh, I have a better idea,” Aramis drawls out before d’Artagnan can speak. And d’Artagnan feels a sense of dread drop down deep into his stomach as Aramis stands, tugs d’Artagnan up by his collar and hooks his free arm around Porthos and drags the two of them back towards his room. 

Before d’Artagnan can think to protest or stop, Porthos laughs and asks, “Okay, what are you doing?” 

Aramis doesn’t answer until he gets his door open, pushes them both inside, and closes his behind them. He’s looking smug again, leaning against the door. He’s looking at Porthos, a thread of desire twisting through his eyes that wasn’t there before. Porthos glances at d’Artagnan when he notices it and shrugs helplessly at Aramis. 

“Hey,” Porthos starts.

“Porthos,” Aramis interrupts, and then says without any preamble, “d’Artagnan wants to fuck you.” 

“What?” both Porthos and d’Artagnan say in unison, the first utterly confused and the second utterly mortified. 

Aramis shrugs again. “Honesty is always the best policy,” he says with only an air of irony to it that d’Artagnan can’t quite place, and he continues to bodily block the door. “And there’s no mistaking _that_ look.” 

Porthos stares first at Aramis and then turns towards d’Artagnan. He doesn’t look outraged or anything, if anything he looks as if he thinks Aramis is being an idiot – which he is – but d’Artagnan hates how mortified he must look, hates how much he wants to sink into the ground and let that be that. 

“He’s been staring at you all week,” Aramis offers. 

“Aramis,” Porthos sighs out and gives him an indulgent look.

“Don’t ‘Aramis’ me,” Aramis protests. “I’m being helpful. He’ll go around mooning about it and you won’t notice. So now we can sleep together and it’ll be fun.” 

And d’Artagnan gives him a look. “What ‘we’?” 

“Well obviously I’m coming, too,” Aramis sniffs. 

“Aramis, you’re being ridiculous. Stop teasing the poor guy.” 

Porthos is laughing – he thinks this is all one big joke, shaking his head – and it’d give d’Artagnan an out, a way to explain that Aramis is an idiot, that Aramis is a fool, that Aramis is a horny bastard who can’t leave well enough alone. 

But then Porthos laughing is – distracting. And d’Artagnan can’t breathe for a moment, and perhaps it’s that same old impulsiveness that he’s always reprimanded for, but he says, abruptly, “But I do want to fuck you.”

Now Porthos is giving him a wild-eyed stare. And d’Artagnan can’t even regret it. He squares his shoulders and tips his chin up like he’s facing down impossible odds and he _knows_ he’s blushing a little but he’s also not going to take it back. His hands are fisted at his sides and his heart is pounding – and Lord, he feels like he’s about to dive into a bar fight, the adrenaline singing in his veins, and he doesn’t even _care_. 

“Well,” Aramis says somewhere behind Porthos. “See?” 

“What, really?” Porthos asks, and looks ready to laugh, looks ready to dismiss it as a joke – and really, that just fuels d’Artagnan on. Now he _has_ to keep going. 

“Yes,” he says. Then says, with far more bravado than he feels. “That a problem?”

Porthos snorts out a laugh. “No. Just – surprising.” 

“See what I mean about him being oblivious to feelings?” Aramis calls out in something of a sing-song. Porthos turns his head just so he can _see_ him roll his eyes. “Well now that that’s settled.”

He starts taking off his shirt. Both Porthos and d’Artagnan give him a withering look. 

But Aramis, undeterred, only shrugs. “No time like the present, right?” 

“And what makes you think I want to sleep with you?” d’Artagnan asks. 

Aramis actually looks scandalized as he strips off his shirt and tosses it aside. “My dear d’Artagnan. Please. _Everyone_ wants to sleep with me.” 

“It’s true,” Porthos agrees as Aramis gets up in his space and starts untying his shirt for him. He gives d’Artagnan a helpless little smile. “Just tell him to fuck off and he’ll listen you know.” Aramis’ fingers are ghosting over Porthos’ neck and the exposed line of his chest, touching at a few scars, but Porthos is looking at d’Artagnan. “He gets carried away – but. If you don’t actually mean it—”

“I do!” And to prove his point he takes a note out of Aramis’ playbook and just rips off his jacket with more gusto than he normally would in any other circumstance. He even whips it down to the floor for added effect. 

Even Porthos can only protest so much, though, especially when Aramis starts stripping him down. And d’Artagnan can’t help but stare as he slowly pulls pieces of clothes off of him, easy as breathing, familiarity and warmth radiating from the both of them – and d’Artagnan feels like an intruder, staring blatantly as Porthos strips down. He isn’t sure what he’s expecting, but there is definitely a flush of warmth radiating in him when he looks at Porthos’ exposed chest. And then Aramis kneels down, undoing Porthos’ belts. A hand rests on the back of Aramis’ neck, steady and warm. Seeing that, d’Artagnan swallows. 

“Come here,” Aramis beckons, and d’Artagnan obeys, making his way over towards them as Aramis pushes Porthos down steady onto the bed. Porthos is grinning at Aramis, somewhat stupidly – it seems to have settled in now that this is happening, as abrupt as it is, and d’Artagnan stands still as Aramis starts stripping him down, too. “Honestly,” he tuts, “making me do all the work.” 

Porthos rumbles out a laugh as he works at getting out of his smalls without Aramis’ insistence. And d’Artagnan _stares_ because Porthos is already half-hard and really, it’s—

Well, yes. He flushes. Aramis looks entirely too smug. 

Which just means d’Artagnan is giving him a withering look. “What are you looking so pleased about? It isn’t _your_ cock.” 

Aramis laughs in his face, turns, and ducks his head to give Porthos a deep kiss – possessive. His hand falls to Porthos’ cock and strokes once, just to demonstrate. Porthos makes a pleased little sound and kisses him back, fingers tangling up in his hair. Swallowing, d’Artagnan steps out of the rest of his clothes. 

Aramis draws back, looking triumphant, and settles down into a spot between Porthos’ legs. He widens them to make room for him and d’Artagnan watches as Aramis slides his hands up along his thighs, lightly. He beckons for d’Artagnan to join him and he steps forward, moving to kneel down beside him as Aramis shimmies out of his trousers and smalls. 

“This will likely be best, wouldn’t it?” Aramis asks Porthos, stroking his hands over him lightly, his smile dimpled. 

Porthos snorts out. “You just want to show-off.” 

“Me? Never,” Aramis sighs, “I only have your pleasure in mind.” He elbows d’Artagnan. “Want to suck him off together?” 

“What?” d’Artagnan asks, and then feels like a simpleton. “What, together?” 

“Well I’m certainly not just going to sit and watch,” Aramis chuckles. 

“Have you actually done this before?” d’Artagnan blurts out and then feels remarkably stupid about it because it’s _Aramis_ , of _course_ he’s sucked a dick before. Hurriedly he adds, “With another person doing it, too, I mean.” 

Aramis chuckles. He palms at Porthos’ cock in a way that is far too familiar and elicits a pleased little gasp from Porthos. 

“Something like that,” Aramis agrees, and waggles his eyebrows rather obnoxiously at Porthos – who rolls his eyes and otherwise ignores him. “Porthos, I believe d’Artagnan is nervous.” 

He finds himself bristling before he can quite restrain himself and he scoffs, loudly. Aramis chuckles again and leans in closer, eyes lowering a bit, eyelashes fanning out across his cheeks briefly as he blinks in a way that is probably entirely calculated, that bastard. And then he smiles, so sure even in its coyness. It should piss d’Artagnan off, not set his blood on fire. 

“Well?” Aramis whispers, his hand dragging down over Porthos’ cock as he looks at d’Artagnan, only heat in his eyes. 

Throat tight, d’Artagnan grabs Aramis by chained necklace and drags him in – kissing him perhaps a little more forcefully than he’d intended. It gets Aramis to shut up, though, so it serves its purpose. It’s nothing like the kisses he’s seen between Porthos and Aramis now – this is not gentle, it is demanding, perhaps more force than he truly feels if only for the sake of getting Aramis to shut the hell up. 

This is certainly one way for d’Artagnan to admit to himself that he wants everything at once. This situation is already one he never would think he’d be in, and it feels a little impossible as it is. But he kisses Aramis, demanding, and realizes a quick succession of everything he wants: he wants Aramis, he wants Porthos, he wants both of them and neither of them – wants them both with him, wants them to have each other in front of him. It doesn’t matter. All he knows is that he _wants_ and it’s aching and painful, and strange to consider wanting someone who isn’t Constance. 

The thought of her causes a pang and he breaks the kiss and looks away. He’ll punch Aramis if he teases him about being shy, but Porthos, at least, must recognize the tenor of his withdrawal, because his hand comes down to touch at his hair, tucks some of it behind his hair, brushes through it in a way that should really feel juvenile but only makes him shiver and feel comforted. 

“Hey,” Porthos says, voice quiet. “Whatever you want is fine, yeah? Don’t do anything you don’t want.” 

That, too, should make d’Artagnan feel ashamed – to be treated so gently, to be treated like a virgin or like a child. And yet it is vastly reassuring, and he tips his chin up to look at Porthos. He smiles at him.

He swallows down and then lifts himself up, plants his hands on Porthos’ thighs so he can lean up and kiss him. Porthos is gentle with him – again, he thinks maybe he should be ashamed, not reassured – kisses him like he’s the most important person he’s ever held like this, hand to his cheek, breath ghosting against his mouth. 

He could happily keep kissing him but eventually he does draw back, settling back down on the floor beside Aramis, flushed a little just from this. “… If I’m going to stay down here,” d’Artagnan decides, with only some forced bravado, “I am going to need something for my knees.” 

Porthos chuckles, stretches back in a way that is frankly obscene, and grabs his shabby little pillow from his bed and tosses it at d’Artagnan’s head. 

“Well what about me, then?” Aramis whines out, hands fanning over Porthos’ thigh. 

Porthos grins at him. “You’ll get over it. Don’t you want us to treat d’Artagnan well?” 

Aramis and d’Artagnan both snort together, and then Aramis starts laughing and d’Artagnan can’t help but join him – nervousness bubbling up inside of him but also excitement. Feeling bold, he presses his hand to Porthos’ other thigh, slides up and touches at his hip. His skin is surprisingly soft, warm beneath his palm. That, too, is somehow vastly reassuring. 

He turns and kisses Aramis again, less force and more confidence this time. Aramis’ lips are soft against his, his moustache tickling against his lip – and that will be something to get used to. He feels half-drowned already. He feels overwhelmed even with just this, like he _is_ some kind of virgin. And he gives a devastated little whine when Porthos starts petting through his hair, and Aramis’ hand comes to rest at the back of his neck and pull him in closer. 

Aramis is looking just the tiniest bit triumphant when he draws back from the kiss, eyes soft but bright with intensity, with a slow curl of arousal that d’Artagnan knows he’s mimicking. 

“We’re neglecting our dear Porthos,” Aramis says with a tilt of his head, and then shifts up and nuzzles against Porthos’ thigh and somehow that’s the lewdest thing d’Artagnan has ever witnessed from Aramis and he bites back a small, appreciative sound. 

“Oh, he _likes_ that,” Porthos decides, and his hand tangles up in Aramis’ hair, tugging – easy and self-assured, each movement fluid and secure in knowing what the other likes. Aramis presses a kiss to Porthos’ thigh. The change in Porthos is clear now – more comfortable, more secured now that he’s sure d’Artagnan wants this. He lights up. He’s impossible to look away from. 

“Has he ever done this before, though, I wonder,” Aramis chirps out happily, and d’Artagnan realizes that Aramis is smug and happy and bright simply because he’s showing off now, pressing kiss after kiss up Porthos’ thigh, the curve of his belly, anywhere but his cock. He’s giving d’Artagnan an assessing look, and d’Artagnan can’t look away – can’t look away from how easily Porthos responds to Aramis’ touch, his kisses, his breath ghosting at his hip. He watches Porthos’ cock thicken without even being touched and it’s utterly distracted. 

The tease does eventually breach his fogged up mind, pushing through the arousal, and he puffs out. “What makes you think I haven’t?” 

“Have you?” Porthos asks. He pets through Aramis’ hair. 

Well, d’Artagnan _hasn’t_ but he’s at least experienced it well enough – and when it came to pleasing Constance, he certainly—

But he shouldn’t be thinking of her when it’s like this. He makes a soft sound, looks down. Almost instantly, Porthos is ducking down a little, reaching out to him – touches at his hair, then his cheek. 

“Hey,” Porthos says quietly, and it’s strange to find it so comforting, the heavy, callused hand upon his jaw, clearly a man’s hand, clearly _Porthos’_ hand, and yet it is a comfort. “It’s alright.”

He flushes and then rolls his eyes. “I’m _not_ so inexperienced. You don’t have to be so gentle.” 

Aramis chuckles where he’s still nuzzling against Porthos’ thigh, apparently frustrated that he isn’t getting the attention he’d love to have – and he turns his head and smirks at d’Artagnan. “Well then, let’s see if you can keep up.”

Then he plants a hand very gently to Porthos’ stomach and pushes him back so he can brace himself against his hands. He smiles up at Porthos, then kisses down that stomach and then takes his cock into his mouth. And d’Artagnan knows he’s openly staring at that – watching the way the muscles in Porthos’ abdomen tense up and the way he hitches out a surprised, but pleased breath – watches the way Aramis’ mouth curls up into a self-satisfied smile even with a cock in his mouth. Just the head, he suckles at it and d’Artagnan can see the flash of his tongue as it curls around him. 

“He’s going to show off now,” Porthos says, somewhat in warning, somewhat in just plain delight. 

Porthos’ prediction is correct since Aramis makes a soft sound, looks up at Porthos and locks eyes with him as he starts moving in earnest – first just suckling and licking at the cockhead, then slowly sinking his way down lower, bobbing his head, dragging his tongue down along the underside of his cock. His hand comes up, curling around the base, and stroking in time to his mouth. And d’Artagnan can do nothing but stare, mesmerized, unsure if he should be doing something beyond just watching – and realizing, distantly, that Aramis _wants_ him to watch. He leans in closer, forward, hand touching at Porthos’ thigh just for the sake of doing so, and Porthos strokes his hand down over his hair in a way that shouldn’t make d’Artagnan shiver. They’re both watching Aramis and Aramis is delighting in it. 

Aramis suckles at the head first, bobs his head a few times, and then just sinks down onto the cock. Porthos is certainly not small but Aramis makes it look easy as he sinks down further and further onto that cock, swallows around him, mouth stretched, until he’s swallowed him down entirely. Porthos opens his mouth to say something to d’Artagnan, but even he can’t ignore against that, and he ducks his head with a helpless little moan, fingers tangling up in Aramis’ hair. 

“Yeah,” Porthos whispers out – hitched and breathless, a prayer in Aramis’ name. He glances at d’Artagnan and gasps out a pleased, “See? Show-off.” 

Aramis makes a helplessly pleased little moan as Porthos tugs on his hair, and jerks back away from Porthos’ cock, gasping out a breath, already grinning once the cock leaves his mouth and he starts stroking over him to compensate for the loss of his hand. 

He gives d’Artagnan an overly smug look. 

“Oh, shut up,” d’Artagnan says, and hates that he sounds more breathless than frustrated. He shoves at Aramis and scoots his way into Porthos’ space after setting down the pillow, settling between his legs. He knows he’s not going to be able to do – well, _that_ , but he’s not some simpleton from the country. 

He feels both of them watching, which really doesn’t make him feel any more secure in what he’s doing. He lifts his hand up and wraps it around Porthos’ cock, shoving Aramis’ hand away. He looks up at Porthos, somewhat defiantly, and sees Porthos watching him back with a small, pleased little smile. 

“Hey,” he says, nothing more than a small breath – smiling at him. 

And d’Artagnan _flushes_ like a fool but also finds himself smiling back. This is the look that started it all – that soft, gentle look he’d used when looking at Aramis, in that alleyway just after they’d kissed. Now, it’s Porthos’ hands in _d’Artagnan’s_ hair, smiling at _d’Artagnan._

He starts stroking Porthos’ up, keeping his hand loose at first, just getting the feel of the thickness and length of the cock, squeezing a little at the head and twisting his hand down as he strokes. Porthos lets out a pleased little breath, nods his head, and closes his eyes – bucks his hips up into d’Artagnan’s touch. 

Aramis makes an assessing sound behind him. “Oh, anyone could stroke him off.” 

“Don’t get jealous,” Porthos teases him, and shares a grin with d’Artagnan. 

“I am no—I am _merely_ interested in making sure you’re taken care of,” Aramis whines out, and then sits up further on his knees so he can catch Porthos in a kiss. Still stroking Porthos up, d’Artagnan watches – watches as Aramis turns more demanding, kissing Porthos deep and sure, watches Porthos respond, a smile touching at the corner of his mouth even as he bites at Aramis’ lip and tugs with his teeth. 

He watches for a moment and then d’Artagnan huffs out and ducks his head down – licks tentatively at the head of Porthos’ cock. Porthos groans out an encouragement into the kiss, which just makes Aramis’ brow furrow and start kissing him harder. Not to be outdone, d’Artagnan keeps stroking over his cock and ducks his head down, taking the cockhead fully into his mouth and suckling, licking and dragging his lips over it. He gets used to the taste, the feel of it, and he lets out a weak little moan as he focuses in on that, blinking his eyes open to look up at Aramis and Porthos kissing still. Porthos’ hand tightens in his hair and Aramis makes a weak little sound as he grasps at Porthos’ shoulders, kissing him desperately. From where he’s kneeling, d’Artagnan can see that Porthos’ free hand is stroking over Aramis’ cock. 

When Aramis draws back from the kiss, pressing his forehead briefly to Porthos’ own, d’Artagnan just watches from his position on his knees, sucking around Porthos’ cock, getting used to the thickness, the heaviness of it in his mouth – unlike anything else he’s experienced before, really, the way it twitches in his hand when he jerks it just right, the weight of it, the taste of it. 

“And here I thought,” Aramis whispers against Porthos’ mouth, “we were going to stroke you off together. He’s having fun, isn’t he?” 

Porthos laughs, “Don’t make him mad when I’m in his mouth.”

To demonstrate the weight of the situation, d’Artagnan makes a threatening little growl that only makes Porthos bark out a laugh and Aramis drop down to his knees beside d’Artagnan. 

“You’re not bad,” Aramis decides, but there’s the spark of competition in his eyes. He leans in, breath hot against d’Artagnan’s cheek, kisses it and says, “Now let me show you how it’s done.” 

But d’Artagnan refuses to back away and keeps stubbornly bobbing his head down on Porthos’ cock – he can’t go nearly as deep as Aramis can, not even a fraction, but he can at least swallow down around the head. Porthos is making soft, pleased sounds above him and that’s encouraging. But then Aramis pushes his hand away, scoots in close, and starts licking down the length of Porthos’ cock where d’Artagnan’s mouth can’t reach. The angle’s wrong so he can’t watch easily, but he can hear the sounds of Aramis pillowing his lips down over Porthos’ cock, licking and kissing, stroking his tongue along the base and sweeping back up, can feel the bristle of his cheek against d’Artagnan’s own as he comes up close to where d’Artagnan’s lips are spread across the cock. Aramis looks up and d’Artagnan does the same – looks up at Porthos, who’s panting a little, mouth parted in pleasure, smiling down at him, one hand on each of them, tangled up into their hair. He tugs first on d’Artagnan and then on Aramis. 

“You’re good, it’s good,” he says, absently, face flushed, chest lifting and falling with his hurried breath, and it’s taking all his restraint, d’Artagnan realizes, not to just start thrusting up. He’s deliberately holding himself back. He makes a sound of frustration as the thought occurs to him and he grabs at Porthos’ hip and coaxes it forward, prompting him to start thrusting. Porthos groans, jerks his hips forward, and despite his bravado, d’Artagnan struggles not to choke when Porthos’ cock strokes in a little too deeply. He pulls back, breathing out harsh through his nose, and licks at the cockhead. 

No sooner than he’s pulled back, though, than Aramis is there, mouth curling around his cock in a triumphant smile. He starts bobbing his head down, stroking his mouth over Porthos’ cock with gusto, swallowing down around him. It’s enough to get d’Artagnan to growl, and he leans in too and starts licking at the base, down over his balls, sucking them curiously into his mouth just for the feeling of it, and then drawing back to kiss over his stomach and nuzzle stubbornly at his thigh. Aramis is the entire reason why he’s _here_ , and he’s not about to lose to him either just because he has the unfair advantage of knowing what Porthos likes and also apparently not knowing how to gag. 

And so d’Artagnan leans in, butts his forehead against Aramis’ cheek until he moves aside, and then he starts licking at the head of Porthos’ cock, stroking over him. Not to be outdone, Aramis leans in, smug and smiling at him like an indulgent parent (and if ever there was a disturbing thought when sharing a cock with his friend), and starts licking too. Aramis suckles at the tip while d’Artagnan lets his tongue lave over the ridge, tasting at him. And then, both of them suckling on one side of the cock each, d’Artagnan feels the brush of Aramis’ mouth – and he shudders a little and gasps out. Porthos above him groans, strokes his hips forward so that his cock slides against their mouths, and d’Artagnan can feel the softness of Aramis’ lips, a different kind of feeling than the cock against his tongue. Aramis’ eyes lower and he gives him a heated look, strokes his tongue over Porthos’ cock and catches at the edge of d’Artagnan’s bottom lip. 

Then Aramis leans in closer and they’re kissing with Porthos’ cock between them, and it’s messy and too much tongue but d’Artagnan loves it – he moans out weakly, squeezes his hand around Porthos’ cock, tastes the both of them in his mouth. He looks up at Porthos for approval, finds Porthos’ heated gaze on him – and d’Artagnan shudders again, full-bodied, unable to control the heat of his own desire, with Aramis so close, with Porthos’ cock in his hand and on his tongue. 

“Not bad,” Aramis whispers, hot breath against Porthos’ cock as he strokes down over it with his tongue. “But oh, he likes this,” Aramis says, simply, smug, moves slow – so slow, far too slow, and Porthos’ moan is pleasure and frustration at once. “And this,” Aramis says, simply, and there’s the slightest, barest edge of his teeth against the line of Porthos’ cock, hardly a whisper of it. 

Porthos barks out a short shout of surprise and bucks his hips up. 

“But I wouldn’t recommend you doing that just yet,” Aramis says casually, swirling his tongue along the length of his cock, licks at his balls and then drags his lips down along the underside of Porthos’ cock until he reaches the tip again. 

“Yeah,” Porthos says around a breathless laugh, “Please don’t bite it off.” 

“I wasn’t going to,” d’Artagnan protests, petulant. 

“Mmmm, and he really likes this,” Aramis hums out, and then lets his mouth go slack again, swallows down around Porthos fully – showing off again, d’Artagnan realizes, showing off to him and showing off to Porthos. 

Porthos is a moaning, shaking mess from all this as it is, his thighs shivering beneath d’Artagnan’s hand. He’s heaving out breaths, head ducked down, his pupils blown wide and his lips parted in a pleased smile. 

“For God’s sake,” d’Artagnan barks out with a roll of his eyes, “Is he _always_ this impossible?” 

Porthos is too breathless to sound reprimanding, instead just kind of grinning stupidly at d’Artagnan, cupping his hands in Aramis’ hair and thrusting up into his mouth. Aramis moans out happily, a soft gurgling sound and then swallowing further around him. 

He does eventually manage out a rather strangled, “He’s always impossible.” 

Aramis makes a soft growling sound that melts into a moan as he drags his mouth down further over Porthos’ cock, swallows around him, rolls his tongue up against him. 

Not to be outdone, once Aramis draws back to breathe, d’Artagnan darts in and starts licking up and down the length of his cock, holding Porthos’ hips to keep him in place as he moves. Aramis chuckles out, breathless, his voice _hoarse_ good God, and then starts moving in tandem with him, licking down the other side of Porthos’ cock. They move together, licking and suckling over his cock and Porthos is soon reduced to more sounds, more noise, all moans and gasps of their names. And d’Artagnan delights in the feeling of hands in his hair, tugging him along, guiding him along. 

And then he feels Aramis’ hand in his hair, too, tugging him back. He leans in and kisses d’Artagnan once, then hooks his thumb past his lips and opens his mouth, helps guide him down onto Porthos’ cock. He still can’t swallow a lot of him, but he manages as best he can, with Aramis guiding the cock into his mouth. 

“Go on, darling,” Aramis whispers up to Porthos, touches his hip to guide him along, and the hold in his hair tightens and Aramis is guiding him down to meet his thrusts, each thrust thick and deep and he’s gasping out, squirming closer, feeling so utterly controlled and out of control and _perfect_ that it’s almost too much. He looks up at Porthos, finds Porthos smiling down at him, and d’Artagnan moans out helplessly, closes his eyes against it all. Its’ almost overwhelming. 

And then Porthos is moving faster, almost too fast. He’s shaking, he’s shuddering. He’s groaning out, and Aramis makes a soft whining sound, must know what’s coming. He tugs hard on d’Artagnan’s hair, but d’Artagnan doesn’t want to back off, doesn’t want to leave. 

“Come on,” Aramis coaxes him, kisses over his jaw and neck as d’Artagnan struggles to swallow around the thick cock. 

Aramis tugs again, and d’Artagnan pulls back just as Porthos hits his climax. And d’Artagnan regrets his mouth isn’t on him, that he can’t feel the pulse, the heavy weight of it – the taste of him. But then there’s come hitting his face and d’Artagnan scrunches his face up and makes an involuntary sound of disgust at the sticky feeling to it. 

Aramis laughs beside him and looks up at Porthos, stroking him through it, holds his gaze even once he’s spent. Porthos is a gasping mess, sweat at his brow, but he’s grinning. 

“Seems you should aim for me next time, darling,” Aramis drawls out, and then suckles around Porthos’ cockhead, drawing out the last remnants of come. Porthos chuckles above them. 

“Wasn’t exactly meaning to,” Porthos rumbles out, sated and satisfied, his eyes drooped in simple pleasure and happiness. He touches at d’Artagnan’s hair, brushes through it apologetically. “Sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” d’Artagnan mutters, embarrassed, but then Aramis is leaning in and kissing him, then kissing over his face and licking up along his cheeks and nose until he’s clean, although d’Artagnan makes another soft, fussy sound because even if it’s hot, it’s still a little weird to him. This entire situation is weird, though, but he feels thrummed over with his arousal, feels that it would take only the simplest touch to get him to come, too. Just from this. 

“Mmm,” Aramis hums out once he pulls back. “Perhaps if we behave and get him back up, he’ll fuck you,” Aramis says as he plants a few sloppy kisses over Porthos’ trembling thigh. “He’s _really_ good at that.” 

“I think I can speak for myself,” Porthos laughs out, drowning out d’Artagnan’s embarrassing moan of pleasure at the thought. “But I like to think I’m pretty good, yeah.” 

And d’Artagnan gasps out another soft, needy moan. He’s too stretched thin, this was all too much – just this was too much and he feels like it’ll only take the simplest of touches to get him to come. Hell, maybe he doesn’t need to be touched at all, only kissed. He looks up at Porthos, can’t disguise the neediness he know must be in his expression. 

“Well I think—” Aramis starts.

“I think,” Porthos interrupts, staring at d’Artagnan. “You should both get the hell up here so I can take care of you.” 

Aramis grins and d’Artagnan laughs – and then they obey him, lifting up off the floor and going to him. Aramis curls up to him and d’Artagnan sinks into him, kissing him – and he’s wrong, there’s nothing more comforting than Porthos’ arms wrapping around him, holding him close. And if he ruts off against the hollow of Porthos’ hip, that’s his own goddamn business and he really does not need to hear Aramis’ smug laughter about it.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on my [tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/) for whatever reason.


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